


Inconsequential Circumstances

by SoulfulSongbird



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Out of Character Bella Swan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 10:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15411417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfulSongbird/pseuds/SoulfulSongbird
Summary: One night, Rosalie discovered, a face she'd never forget. Too bad the girl she couldn't get out of her mind had been there patiently waiting, for years. The story of how a series of dreams, unimaginable circumstances, and a whole lot of revelations can change your life forever. AH AU Rose/ Bella fic. Slow Burn. Be prepared.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Prologue

The building before me held an ominous kind of quiet, despite the billowing flames that consumed it. It was an eerie silence to that was incredibly off putting. It seemed strange to see a place, that was probably once overflowing with the sounds of lives lived within those walls, halted in its tracks and burned at the stake. The sudden realization of just how bad it would be inside the, now collapsing, building shook me to my core. A sense of foreboding panic overtook me, and I looked over to my partner to gauge her reaction. Without saying a word, we both knew this would be a bad one. I could read the sadness in her expression, just as I'm sure she could see the worry in mine. We knew we could stand to lose our lives saving those that remained inside. Then, just like fools, we rushed in. It was our livelihood, our duty, our purpose after all. To save as many as we could and to put out the fire that was now consuming this once magnificent building.

It seemed the more people we got out of the building, the more there were to still be saved. Their bodies ranged in damage, but I never quite made out the details of their faces. These were people's family members, and yet I couldn't find any unique detail about one of them. My own mind had long since given over to all too familiar haze that made it possible for me to do my job well. I could not allow emotion to cloud my best judgement. It was imperative that I maintained control over the despair that threatened to consume me over the lives destroyed by this fire. Right now, my only focus was to get us all out alive. I could not allow myself to lose sight of my purpose.

Over the sounds of the roaring flames, nothing could be heard as I carried the last charred soul out to safety with agony on her lips. I'd found her trapped in what once appeared to be a bedroom, fire surrounding her on all fronts. Pieces of the ceiling above, had now begun falling in around her. There was no escape for her. I rushed in and lifted her as quickly as I could. I could hear the remainder of the ceiling bowing and creaking. I knew we were running out of time, and fast. My suit took a hit, to say the least, but we made it out of the bedroom, then the apartment. She screamed and thrashed, as the sounds of her pain reached me through my mental haze. I could see her flesh melting off in some places. In others, the skin was damaged beyond repair, and I knew she would have a long road ahead.

My body grew tired, but my resolve remained steadfast. I don't remember the route taken or how I'd gotten out. But, I remember when the all clear was given. As I loaded that girl into the back of an ambulance, I noticed her face. Then, for the first time, I could tell that beneath all the burns that mangled her face and arms, she had once been incredibly beautiful.

She still was very beautiful. 

In my head, I considered who this woman could be. I thought about the fact that when she woke up that morning, she had no idea her day would end this way. I thought about how she probably had come home from work and gone about her nightly routine with no worries of anything like this happening. I thought about how she survived the fire, yet still had so much more surviving to do in the coming days.

My only other thought, as the ambulance rolled away, was that she must have been an angel…and I didn't even know her name.


	2. Chapter Two

BPOV

There was a saying from somewhere, by some old guy, that said something about things being given and taken away. Whoever the hell he was, I was starting to believe he might have been on to a revolutionary idea.

Since I was five years old, I had only one constant through every phase of my life. In preschool, puberty, and even pre-law she was there. At first, my parents shrugged it off. I can only guess they believed her to be nothing more than an imaginary friend. At night, flashes of this girl with the golden colored hair came to me in my dreams. In the beginning, there were no words. There were, instead, just flashes of stolen moments. I saw when she learned to ride a bike, her first day of school, and those incredibly heinous braces that lasted all through middle school.

The more dreams I had, the more I learned. But every night, it was the same girl. Rosalie Lillian Hale. Her dad called her his Rose and, truthfully, she was as beautiful as one. Once, I even considered her to be my soulmate. After all, how could my own imagination not create the perfect woman for me? But, I was wrong.

She never came. She never showed up for me and my life was ten times harder because of it. Where they had once considered it to be the youthful imaginings of a little girl, as I grew older and continued to wax on about the perfection of Rosalie, my parents grew tired and frustrated. Well, my father did, at least. He was a practical man by default. He thrived in situations with concrete facts. Rosalie situation was not something that was easy for him to understand. Overnight, I went from being daddy's little girl to being a thorn in his side.

My mother had always been slightly eccentric and much more spiritual than my father. Renee believed nearly anything was possible, because in a lot of was she held on to her innocence. It served her well now, as a preschool teacher and it was one of the things that drew us closer. I did not agree with everything she believed. But, I knew she did believe in the things only children had enough imagination to dare ponder. She didn't question the possibility of my dreams, rather she accepted them as fact.

The tension between my father and I was high all throughout my teenage years, until he spoke to my mom about having me committed to a psychiatric hospital, fearing that I was possibly schizophrenic. I could see the worry in his eyes, so I didn't push it. I knew he was reacting on what he saw, based on what he understood to be plausible. Still, it hurt to know that my own father could believe that about me. Over time, I just stopped spending time with him, resulting in our now strained relationship. When I did have to see him, I made sure to steer clear of anything pertaining to Rosalie.

Life got hectic after high school, and even though Rosalie still appeared in my dreams every night, I spent less and less time thinking of her during the day. So much so, I began to think of her as just a noise in the background. I knew she was there. But, as time went on, I was able to ignore thoughts of her less and less. The urge to find her, by the time I was legally able to, had died down. The more the years passed, the less inclined I was to do so. I was okay with her just being there every night when I closed my eyes. I had made my peace with that reality once already, and now I was being forced to do so again because she wasn't just in my head.

Rosalie Hale was real. She was in my apartment. She saved me from the fire.

I had been chanting that to my phrase since my arrival at the hospital and it didn't seem to make any sense to me. I knew what I saw. I knew what I felt when I saw her face. I knew that my heart nearly stopped beating at the thought that she was the one to carry me out of my home as it burned away, taking with it everything I worked for. I knew all these things to be fact, but it just wasn't adding up.

Personally, I considered myself to be a logical human being. I made my living on being a methodical, rational person, even with my dysfunctional brain. That's why I can say with absolute certainty that it is mathematically impossible for the events of the past twenty-four hours to have occurred. Yet, they somehow had. The searing pain of what was once my skin burning, and later, being peeled off like a bandage was still fresh in my mind and cemented the fact that it had indeed happened.

What made me most hesitant to accept this seemingly undeniable truth was that I should have seen it. I should have known this was coming. But, who really wants to predict their own almost death? Could I even call them predictions? I don't know. However, it was this solitary thought that occupied my mind while I endured the constant agony that threatened to pull me into a sweet, dreamless abyss.

Subconsciously and physically, my body was in shock. I knew that. I was trapped in the fire still. Every inch of flesh that remained on my body seemed to have engulfed the flames and projected that terrible sensation throughout my nervous system. In its wake, it left nothing more than an indescribable sense of panic and adrenaline. Just like in the fire, I could not move. My lungs rattled inside my chest as I willed myself to breathe. All thoughts of the world around me were gone. There were no nurses, doctors, and awful machines anymore. There was only me and the fire that consumed my body, leaving only muscle and tissue where flesh should have been. And smoke. Smoke that seemed to blanket me, like the everlasting comfort of my mother's arms, as ash and debris from the upper floors crashed around me.

If asked later, I will surely deny it. You know, when they talk of my miraculous survival. People will wonder if I ever wished for death. The only accepted response will be no, and I shall give it. But, when I laid there in my bed burning alive, I did wish for death. I wished for an ending to my pain. I prayed for it more than I've ever prayed for anything.

And then, she came to save us, to save me. Damn Rosalie!

Naturally that infuriating woman would show up, at the one moment that I wished she was miles away. I couldn't have planned that any worse. There was a plethora of other moments she could have chosen to make her existence more than just a figment of my imagination. But no, she chose the moment I've given up to want to be a savior. That's so like her, always wanting to be the hero. It's just too damn bad I never asked for one.

Restlessly, I lay waiting as the sounds of the world outside my mind slowly filtered in. The light streaking in through the blinds of my window seemed to come in at an angle that left one side of my body hot, while the other side shook from the chill in the room. Sounds from the nurse's station came in next, as the plexiglass door to my room slid open.

In walked my mother, continuing her bedside vigil as if she was waiting for me to say anything promising. I suppose, in a way, she was. I hadn't spoken a word since I arrived here. Truthfully, I wasn't entirely sure I could talk. Had it not been for the news, I would probably still be Jane Doe. So, it was safe to assume that my mother was hoping against hope. In fact, there was only one person I wanted to talk to and she was nowhere to be found.

They keep saying I'm lucky. That this could have been much worse. As far as I'm concerned, that's a load of shit. You know who says that? The lucky people and literally no one else. Everyone else knows how sucky the world is and can tell you exactly what a cosmic "fuck you" feels like. So, excuse me, if I think that being randomly selected not to die is bullshit, right now. All I know is whether I walk out of this hospital or not, Rosalie Hale is going down.


	3. Chapter 3

"Rosalie Hale, you have ten seconds to get over here and hug your mother, before I strangle you! Where have you been?!" the older woman yelled, her Southern accent coming through even after living in California for years.

Mary-Katherine Hale was...honestly, it was hard to put into words the kind of woman she was. Physically, she was a full figured, stout woman. Over the years, her hair had taken on a more silver grey where her natural pale blond highlights used to be. Everyone always said I had her eyes, and I guess that's true. The beautiful blue shade fit her face. I could only dream genetics worked this well, in my favor, as I grew older. Socially, however, she was both soft and loving to those who knew her, and tough as nails to those who crossed her. She was an enigma. Upbringing taught her how to be a lady, but experience taught her not to give a shit. It was these valuable lessons, that she later imparted in me.

"Sorry Mom, I just been busy with work." I responded, dodging her wooden spoon that threatened to swat me.

It killed me to see her so torn up about my recent absence from Sunday dinner last week. I knew she worried endlessly about me, but it truly couldn't be helped. Work kept me up until early morning Sunday, and by the time I made it home food was the furthest thing from my mind. I was exhausted after the Willows fire, with just enough energy to drive home and remove my shoes. I didn't make it any further than my couch. I woke up that evening with my face buried in a throw pillow, still dressed in my street clothes.

Taking up my usual spot at the kitchen table, I watched as my mother moved around the kitchen. Judging from the amount of food covering all the surfaces, it was a safe bet she had been going at for quite some time already. Picking up the peeler, I decided to get to work on the potatoes.

"Well, your father should be back directly. He went to get your aunt and uncle from the airport," she said and I inwardly groaned just a little.

My Aunt Esme and Uncle Carlisle were nice enough. They let me spend summers with them in South Carolina when I was younger and always brought me cool presents at Christmas, so honestly, I couldn't complain about them. Their daughter, Alice, on the other hand, really made me want to pull out my hair. Growing up, Alice and I were two peas in a pod. So much so, that she moved out to California for college and I'd been graciously sharing my parents with her ever since. But, all good things must come to an end, and the day she announced her engagement was that end for us.

For the past four months, Alice had been driving me absolutely batshit over every little detail. I mean don't get me wrong. I am extremely happy for her. However, that didn't mean I wanted to make a special trip to Atlanta just to be fitted for a bridesmaid's dress by her idol. Simply put, Alice had lost her mind. It also didn't help that her fiancé, Jasper, was deployed. There was nothing worse than an Alice with a bunch of extra time on her hands.

Admittedly, I considered leaving before she showed up. The only downside to that genius plan being that the birthday girl can't miss her own celebration. Mentally, I began a mantra I would need for the remainder of the day.

You only turn twenty-eight once.

The rest of the day was spent in the presence of my family and closest friends. Tanya and the guys from the firehouse showed up too. I suspect that had more to do with my mom's cooking than anything else. They'd been pestering her for months to make a chicken salad and they had finally gotten their wish. We all ate until we needed to sleep it off and drank maybe just a little too much. Aunt Esme made my favorite Red Velvet cake for dessert so, naturally, I stowed away a few pieces for later. My dad lost a couple of hands of Texas Hold'em to my superior skills, and by the end of the night I was $300.00 richer. Overall, it was a good birthday.

Later as I lay in my bed, my little house was nearly silent, except for the chime of my dryer signaling the end of its cycle. I had taken the time to clean and prepare for the week ahead, yet nothing proved effective at stopping the nagging feeling in the back of my mind. I had been trying, over the last week, to forget about that woman from the fire. Yet, every time I closed my eyes, she was there.

I knew I could go looking for her. However, that knowledge was as far as I got. The last thing I wanted was to be a crazy stalker. I didn't know a thing about that woman. I knew nothing more than the facts of the fire, and the look in her eyes as I helped load her into the ambulance. During her constant stream of screams and groans, her piercing stare never left me. In the moment, I'd never noticed the discontent written clearly on her face. In my thoughts though, I seemed doomed to be subjected to it forever. With no more memories of this woman to replace it with, I was stuck being the target of what can only be described as hate.

My Grandma Jane used to say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Now, I had no idea what I did to piss this woman off, but she looked like she was ready for war. At first, I could barely stop staring at her long enough to realize she was glaring back. I imagine, if she could have moved her arms, they'd be folded across her chest, like the true picture of child-like defiance she was. Nevertheless, she did just fine pinning me with her glare alone. It made me feel, raw like her eyes were burning through me. It was like I was both her saving grace and her worse nightmare. The feeling that engulfed me squared off against as if I were behind enemy lines, and yet welcomed me in like home after a long day, all at the same time. It was like being pissed off at a ghost for saying boo. You could do it, but you'd look like an idiot. The coward in me was happy when she managed a sneer. It gave me an excuse to look away, but also it comforted me to know that she had enough anger to piss her off. Anger meant the will to fight hadn't left her yet. She would need that fight over the coming weeks and months if she hoped to recover and I for one hoped she did.

Logically, no matter how comforted I was, I took that glare as a very real warning to stay the hell away from her. I didn't need that kind of drama in my life. I had enough of my own to deal with, between preparing for Alice's wedding and trying to keep my personal life and work life separate, despite Tanya's insistence that there would be no pressure. Still, my mind pondered this mystery woman with a kind of endless determination, which I vehemently ignored most of the time. But, when I lay here, in the quiet darkness of my room, my mind did wander. In those times, one thought overleaped all the rest.

Why does she seem so familiar?

I'd never met her, and yet it felt like I knew her. I had no name to go on and no one I associated with seemed to be in hysterics over the fire. Maybe I'd passed by her in a grocery store or something. But, it didn't feel that way. The deja vü feeling nagged at my brain, as it had every night since that fire, until I couldn't keep my eyes open any more. I knew that tomorrow I'd wake up from yet another night of dreamless sleep more exhausted than I was before, I'd go through the day as I always did. Then tomorrow night, thoughts of her, would be waiting for me again.

Happy Birthday, to me!


	4. Chapter 4

BPOV

Twenty-nine days, seven hours, thirty minutes, and fifteen seconds.

They had kept me here damn near a month already. I was going to throw a party, but I forgot to be grateful last night when my arms itched so bad they burned. It seemed almost counterproductive to waste time doing so when I looked like a patchwork quilt of human flesh. My skin graft scars were still fresh and covered my hands, arms, and face.

My mother keeps trying to pedal me bullshit about how I'm beautiful like she wasn't the one concerned about how normal I'd look after the fact. What the fuck was normal anyway? Now I must go live with Molly Sunshine, herself. Yay.

I know it sounds morbid, but I wish I had died. No, this is not me being suicidal. This me stating a fact. The fact is, I am Isabella Swan, the attorney tracked to make partner by 30. I was reasonably confident and attractive. I lived comfortably, and for the most part living my daily life required no additional effort or accommodations. That was my normal. That was my routine, my comfort. But, my life was not the same anymore. Now, I thought of my apartment and my heartbeat soared. I couldn't bear to look at my own reflection, and my head was all fucked up. I caught myself jumping at the sound of a book falling off the nurse's station desk yesterday. How pathetic is that? On top of that, I missed so much work, it would take months to catch up. What's the worst though? The nightmares.

I can't sleep without going back to that infernal fire. Every time, I close my eyes it's all I see. I get sucked in and it feels so real. Rationally, I should be able to just tell myself it's all a bad dream. The issue with that is that rationale flies out the window, and the only thing left in its wake is an impending sense of hopelessness and fear. I try to run, but I can't move. I try to scream, but no one hears me. So, instead, I'm stuck reliving that same moment over and over. In my nightmares, time is both fast and slow. I see the damage being done all around me and it looks as though the fire is rapidly advancing. But, somehow when it reaches me, the fire takes it's time consuming me.

The flames feel renewed and as vengeful as a forgotten mistress for my having escaped them. They caress the planes of my body as if looking for a loose thread to unravel every fiber of my being. They threaten to end my life every night and, I'm ashamed to say, in those moments I wish for death more than I've ever hoped for a long life. Death in those times seems to be a blissful reprieve.

Yet, every night, I wake screaming, drenched in my own sweat. My mouth dries out quickly, however, sending me into a coughing binge. I swear, even now, I can feel my lungs rattling in my chest. Then, every morning, I feel ten thousand times more tired than the day before. It's like my whole body is beyond the point of no return.

Every morning is brought in with talks of the fire. My parents, doctors, nurses, my parent's friends, and even coworkers who were brave enough to stop by and show their faces have no shortage of questions, concerns, and stupid sayings that I suppose should make me feel better. Really, it all just feels like salt in my wounds. None of them understand what this feels like and I hope they never do. My mother always relays the details of that night, as if she knew anything more than what she'd been told, by everyone but me. Of course, she dashes in enough sorrow and wonder to make it all seem like more of a soap opera scene than my real life. Renee always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I, however, wanted no part in the retelling of the events that led me here, so I was content to let her prattle on to her heart's content. It gave her something to do rather than fret over me and gave them something else to focus on besides me laying there, looking nothing like the woman they once knew. I found that even Mike who once found me incredibly beautiful, or at the very least enough to have sex with without having to explain that decision to his friends, couldn't even stand to look at me. Part of me was okay with that, since I couldn't bare to look at me either. But, a larger more vain part of me that I had no idea even existed, took this as a personal failing and mourned the loss of my obsessive admirer.

The whole Mike thing probably shouldn't hurt as much as it does. In fact, I had waited years to be rid of his unwanted gaze. Still, that larger part of me craves his attention. I know he's a despicable person, I understand that more than most, being intimately familiar with how the way he looked at me made my skin crawl. I guess I only wanted the attention as peace of mind. I needed him to validate that I'm still the same woman. I need him to feel like nothing has changed. I want to feel like things will be the same, like I still have some sort of value, even if it's not necessarily the kind of value I wish to be known for. I wanted to feel desirable again.

But, I look at me and all I see is aftermath. My body was nothing more than the remainder of what the fire had for breakfast. How is anybody supposed to want that? How am I supposed to love that? It's not about vanity. Still, despite that, my inner self feels broken enough all on its own. Why should my outer self, look like l feel? Don't I deserve to at least see some of me, still lingering here? Don't I deserve to feel pretty? I ask myself that every day; and every day, I receive no answer that appeases me.

Logic tells me life isn't fair and I deserve nothing more than a chance to live it. My anger tells me to be pissed at what was taken from me. My body protests against me and it is in these times, I wonder "who am I"? I can honestly say I dont know. But, the woman in the mirror, she isn't me.


End file.
